The Story that Reared Up and Attacked
by Pseudinymous
Summary: What do you do when a gigantic, glowing glass keyboard appears in the middle of your lounge? A decidedly bored William Lancer wrote a story - after all, what harm could that possibly do? Quite a lot, it seems. [Non-Permanent Hiatus]
1. Prologue

**The Obligatory Author's Note:  
**You probably (don't) remember this story from my old account, _MoonlightUmbreon_. In any case, it is being rewritten here and I do have the necessary plans to completely finish it. Not all of the text has changed, but most has been altered in some way (why did I used to use so many words? o_o;;) Some chapters have already been written in advance, so regular updating should ensue. :) Another important note: this is the prologue, which means it's going to be tiny in comparison to the proper chapters.

This story is very obviously crack, if the description didn't give it away. Reviews would be nice, but you already know that. :P Constructive criticism is, as always, welcomed.

**The Obligatory Blanket Disclaimer:  
**I don't own Danny Phantom, Butch Hartman does, blah blah blah, OH GOD GET OFF MY BACK, LAWYER!

* * *

**The Story that Reared Up and Attacked  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

**~ The Prologue ~**

* * *

'Twas the night after Christmas in Lancer's small house, and nothing was stirring – well, except for a mouse.

William Lancer was _done _with Boxing Day. All those so-called bargains, pah! And to _think_ people actually thought they were getting something cheap! Was he the only person in existence to notice that the stores were saying everything was on sale while actually raising the original price?

Juggling a small parade of plastic shopping bags, Lancer dug furiously in his pockets for the keys to his house. He was so aggravated and absorbed into mentally demoralising Boxing Day sales that when he walked through the door and put his groceries away in the kitchen, he went straight past the glaringly obvious new oddity occupying the space in front of his lounge room's television set.

There was nothing more important to him right now than warning everyone to be careful about what they buy. He'd tell the few people he knew well tomorrow so they wouldn't get sucked in. Though, of course, he did doubt they'd be sucked in at all – they all had good heads on their shoulders and could spot it from a mile away. _Still_, he reasoned,_ there's nothing like a good warning when you need-_

"Dear _Othello_! What on _earth_...?"

Lancer had been absent-mindedly walking into his lounge-room to watch his book review program when he finally noticed this new addition to the standard furniture; a gigantic circular keyboard which had room for a user in the middle. It's sudden appearance was perhaps not the most shocking thing about it, however – it floated, and was glowing to boot. Everything about it just screamed '_ghost artefact!_'.

Lancer stood there looking at the... the _thing_, not quite able to give it a proper name, yet. It was made with a clear, slightly opaque glass surface, and above the many glass keys on the circular board were two life-size computer screens.

He took a moment to calm down, breathe, then he looked at it again. ...Well, despite being a ghost artefact, it did look relatively harmless – all it seemed to be was a really big computer. A big computer with a gigantic circular keyboard that was made of... glass.

The schoolteacher was intrigued. Not by what it did, but why it had suddenly appeared in the middle of his living room. Had a ghost put it there as some kind of trap? He should probably call-

An image of the last disaster the Fentons had caused popped into mind. No, maybe he shouldn't call them.

Now he was conflicted. He knew very well what 'curiosity killed the cat', meant, but the other part of him was arguing about satisfaction bringing it back. Aside from probably being dangerous ghost technology, it was an intriguing piece of equipment. Nothing exciting ever really happened in Lancer's life – aside from the odd ghost attack. Would he ever get this sort of chance again?

He'd have to be careful, though. He wasn't sure exactly _why _it was in his house, but it must've belonged to a ghost; that meant that if he broke it whilst under his possession, he'd probably end up paying a _very _dear price.

Nevertheless, he'd at least have to move it out of the lounge-room. If he didn't soon, he wouldn't be able to watch his book reviews.

* * *

"Out of my sight!"

A thin and frail ghost, wrapped in his trademark trench coat and scarf, was forcibly thrown out of Walker's prison. He scrambled to reorient himself, pushed the hair out of his eyes, then scrambled further to get as far away from the place as possible. He might have been dripping in orange juice and his reading glasses may have been smashed beyond normal repair, but he was out. That was all he cared about.

All that, and he'd only spent the night. How did the other prisoners _stand _it? He'd gotten away so easily, and if he'd had to stay there longer he wasn't sure what he'd have wound up doing with himself. Thank heavens Walker was walking around in a Christmasy sort of mood; the Ghostwriter hadn't before been sure the warden even knew what the term 'leniency' meant.

Amidst his mental grumbling, he realised he was getting closer to home and _relished _in the idea of washing all of the orange juice off and out of his clothes. Why was he still scared of oranges? Apart from their inability to rhyme with anything, it wasn't like he could still be allergic to them...

The Ghostwriter eventually arrived at his beloved library home. But home was not home – where were the shattered remains of his beautiful quantum keyboard? Gone? Impossible! No other ghost had any interest in it, especially not when it was in shards! Not even Technus... they had an agreement, damnit!

... No, there was a strange feeling here, an imprint of the physical world, maybe? That meant...

He stood and sighed, crestfallen. If it had disappeared into the human dimension, it could take days to locate. What if someone had taken it and decided to repair it? It wouldn't be hard, ghost artefacts essentially worked on magic, anyway, so all it'd take was a bit of willpower. Worse, what if they'd started to _use _it? It'd be disastrous if someone who didn't know what they were dealing with tried it out!

A little excursion was in order.

* * *

Lancer, meanwhile, had decided that maybe he could skip this evening's book club presentation. It couldn't hurt, could it? Just to start it up and see what it did?


	2. A Sue Called Mary

**The Obligatory Author's Note:  
**Too tired and too preoccupied for an author's note of any decent length, so I shall say two things: the old version of this story on my old account has now been taken down, and the next update for this one will be with sporadic timing, as there are university exams to study for and assignments to be done. Hopefully I'll get it posted soon, though. :)

* * *

**The Story that Reared Up and Attacked  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

**~ Chapter 1 ~**

* * *

With the careful precision of the terminally suspicious, Lancer placed his index finger lightly on the power button. Without applying nearly enough pressure to turn anything on, he whipped it back with a jerk as though he'd been bitten – already, the English teacher's heart was racing.

The painful electric shock, contrary to his own disbelief, never came. So this time he pushed it with a little more confidence, albeit quite warily. The keyboard lacked any sort of visible power source, but that didn't stop the monitors brightening up and jumping to life; it only took another few seconds to display the first screen, which merely said 'Please enter title.'. The cursor blinked at the end, teasing.

Lancer couldn't help himself. He leaned down underneath the keyboard circle (although not without exclaiming "Return of the King, my back!") and stood in the centre. From here, it seemed much like a workstation... if one considered workstations to be other-worldly, made of glass and possibly designed for Mission Control. It all seemed so complicated – why, then, did the interface seem so simple on-screen?

Regardless, it was prompting for a title. Perhaps this was a writing machine? Lancer wasn't particularly sure what to call whatever he was about to do, so he opted for the keyboard beneath this particular screen and typed 'Untitled'. It processed for a moment, before opening the sort of green-on-black text editor that hadn't been seen for years. A message quickly flashed onto the display.

**Fetching signature... Unknown User. What has been typed may not be deleted. Spelling and grammar will be automatically corrected according to the user's thoughts and the internal database, please allow for a short 0.00000000039 second processing time.**

That message stuck in Lancer's mind even after he'd hit enter. This thing could access his own _thoughts_? The reason seemed innocent enough, but the idea was uncomfortable.

On the other hand, he realised that the only thoughts it would be receiving were honest suspicion. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Besides, it seemed like some sort of go-for-your-life writing machine. Surely a simple story couldn't hurt, could it?

Unfortunately, however, it was getting rather late; a consequence that rose from taking over half an hour to get the keyboard through the garage door. Most of that time had seen Lancer sitting down and thinking about how to make it fit, however, until brute force and ignorance had declared that attempting to shove it through a wall turned it handily intangible.

Lancer was now rather tired. Thus, deciding that he wasn't really in any condition to write just yet, he gave the sleep button a quick prod and headed up to bed. Despite today's inaction, there was a feeling of excitement welling up from the pit of his stomach and boiling into his throat – how long had it been since he'd felt like that? Simply put, there was something _about_ that keyboard...

* * *

The Ghostwriter flew up to the Fenton's Ghost Portal. You didn't live in this place and _not _know how to get there – it was now bordering on rite of passage. Aside from this, the library was located in incredibly close proximity, and the Ghostwriter had seen many an entity pass by while travelling to get to the Real World. Merely _finding _it wasn't going to be the problem here.

No, going _through _it was going to be the problem.

There were tales of the Fentons – they ricocheted through the Ghost Zone like gossip in a magazine. Most tales seemed to be about the household; apparently it was more capable of putting up a fight than they were. Alarms, traps, hazards... each story seemed different to the last, which was either because the house was continually updated with the newest death-traps, or because the extrapolation that occurs within any rumour-spreading operation had already gotten particularly large before it had been delivered to him. The Ghostwriter had the horrible suspicion it was the former.

That didn't even count the 'tearing apart molecule-by-molecule' stuff. He didn't even want to _think _about that. No one did. It was too late now, however – he was here, and he had to retrieve that keyboard be it whole or in shards. Fear might have been gripping him, but he wasn't going to let it restrain him from something this precious.

The Ghostwriter took a very deep breath, and flew through the portal.

Twenty seconds and no less than three separate alarms later, he was on the streets of Amity Park and hiding in an alleyway. The Op Centre was making enough noise to wake up several adjacent blocks and there was some commotion going on in the upper-most level of the house, where the Fenton's bedrooms were. There was no stopping to investigate; the Ghostwriter pulled himself together and got far away from there as invisibly as possible.

... Not that he knew how well that worked, with the huge variety of sensors this town was known to have available.

The sun was beginning to come up – it must've been the early hours of the morning. Time of day hadn't mattered to him in so long that it was almost surprising to see such variation, and it was pleasant to someone who had, say, been surrounded by nuclear green light in all his recent years. But the keyboard was still missing, and until it was found the Ghostwriter wasn't going to be happy. A nagging feeling told him it was in one direction, and an even stronger nagging feeling told him it was in the opposite! Needless to say, gut feelings weren't his forte; he had no idea where to start looking.

Although, a teenage girl with golden curls and beautiful green eyes, riding poised atop a unicorn with a sword might have been a good place to start. The way her purple dress (encrusted with sapphires) billowed out behind her was transfixing, and the fist-sized jewel around her neck only added to the spectacle.

The collateral damage had already begun.

* * *

Lancer had gotten up very early this morning, indeed. Inwardly, he'd always wanted to write a story, just once – the only thing that'd stopped him was lack of time and more importantly, lack of motivation. But now... he was more motivated that ever before. The first idea that came to mind was a little reminiscent of his days as a cheerleader, but it was the only thing he had and thus he decided to run with it.

"I think I'll call her... Mary. Yes..." Lancer mused, continuing to tap away on the keyboard. "That's rather a nice name."

Lancer continued to write, manically. Mary gained a back story – how and why she came to Amity Park, where she'd come from, what her family was like, and even a rather tragic childhood behind those two magnificent emerald eyes.

Grinning as he went, Lancer kept on typing and typing and _typing_. Why hadn't he ever realised that writing could be so much fun? Right now, Mary was galloping her way to the local high school to apply for a teaching job – ahh, what a dream. But, wait. Wasn't it the wrong time of year for that? Lancer decided to make it late Spring, so that someone would be there to answer the door.

The chill of the air altogether disappeared, replaced by the subtle morning glow of the almost-summer sun. Deciduous trees regained leaves, plants flowered and withered just a little, and no one noticed a thing...

Except the Ghostwriter, who saw this and wanted to cry. Oh, he was going to do a number on the person that was using _his _keyboard, he was! Whoever was using it wasn't going to stop here, and thus deserved to be punished accordingly for the already extreme reality violation. The work that needed to be done just to fix the current issues was already astronomical.

The problem was, if one were to think of a reality-bending keyboard, one might automatically assume that you could fix anything you liked with just a few keystrokes. Years upon years of tinkering meant that the Ghostwriter knew better – bringing extra people into the world wasn't something you could just fix by ending the story; they _lingered_. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't just manipulate Mary the Sue to walk off a cliff and never be seen again.

Just as bad (actually, probably worse), was that when a Sue was written on that keyboard, they tended to gain a bit of a life of their own, _deviating _from their written instructions. They were characters of illogic, so why should they follow something as logical as a quantum keyboard's influence?

The Ghostwriter was running out of time. More and more of Lancer's words were pouring onto the screen, and he definitely wasn't going easy on the fantasy area. After all, so many things Lancer had read had been so serious; why _shouldn't_ he lighten up once in a while? It was definitely a genre worthy of visiting, even if he felt like his writing was truly awful.

Of course, it wasn't like anyone would end up seeing what he'd written, really. Maybe the ghost that owned the thing, at most? But to own an object like this... it must be _brilliant _at writing. Any lesser author, much less Lancer, would probably be looked down upon with the most condescending of expressions. It probably wouldn't even be worth his or her time in reading. This meant that Lancer was quite free to add a few more surprising elements...

* * *

_Where on Earth is it going?_ The Ghostwriter puzzled angrily, tailing the ridiculous creature. The Sue continued to ride through the streets, positively oozing with extravagancy and elegance.

It revolted him.

Extra details popped up seemingly without notice, and indeed if it had've been anyone but the Ghostwriter – immune to the keyboard's influence simply because he _owned _it – not even the slightest amount of surprise would have taken place. The most striking was probably the beautiful handmade ruby-encrusted sword, the blade made entirely of the precious gem. When it was unsheathed she held it high above her head, so the world could marvel at the marvellous craftsmanship.

It glistened in the almost-Summer sunlight.

_Anymore extravagance, _the Ghostwriter thought bitterly, _and you'll have used enough energy to put out the sun._

Unbeknownst to him, the Sue had just galloped past the offender's house. He continued to follow, of course, hoping to get a lead to _somewhere_. Had he known he was going straight past, he probably would have kicked himself. Hard.

A few more blocks whizzed by before the unicorn came to a screeching halt and gave a majestic rear, which the Sue contained with a certain amount of brilliance. The Ghostwriter had nearly crashed into them, but managed to stop just in time.

"A high school? No kid in their right mind would take a fantasy story here..." he muttered, very much underneath his breath. "Unless... unless it's one of the teachers..."

The 'Writer adjusted his glasses, thinking and muttering to himself. Sense of direction was tugging him back the way he came, but he couldn't just leave a rogue Sue all by herself to wreck up the place, could he? He'd just have to keep an eye on her, and hope she came close to the culprit's place of establishment. Yes. That was the plan, for now...

He went to move, but stopped quickly. It had something to do with the long, glittering ruby sword being shoved in his invisible face.

The Sue was smiling sweetly. "I spy with my little eye..." she said, softly. "I see a little ghost..."

The Ghostwriter was actually fairly tall, but conveyance of the truth wasn't exactly Mary's forte.

* * *

_Mary stopped at Casper High, gasping at the beauty of its walls. She was going to be a teacher here! And her teaching degree from Harvard University would surely get her that job._

Lancer paused, wondering how to write the next sentence; no plan meant getting stuck was inevitable, a harsh lesson he'd learned when writing his first thesis so many years ago. With a machine that didn't allow the deletion of what had been previously written, sentence structure was something Lancer cared about and was quite protective over. ... Even if no one else would see it.

He rubbed his eyes and sagged in front of the screen for a moment, wracking his brain for more. Upon later inspection, however, the keyboard had managed to write some sentences by _itself_. Lancer blinked, rubbed his eyes again and boggled at the screen.

_Then Mary heard something – the faintest whisper of a voice talking to itself. Though unable to decipher the words, it sounded suspiciously like that of a certain invisible writer she knew of. Mary turned sharply, and saw the ghost right in front of her eyes; invisibility wasn't something that had ever had much of an effect on her. He seemed to be in the process of adjusting his glasses and gathering his thoughts._

_Was he about to move? Oh, but she wouldn't have any of that! She put that beautiful ruby sword straight in front of his face._

"_I spy with my little eye... I see a little ghost."_

_If it were possible for ghosts to pale further, the Ghostwriter would probably have been the one to manage it. In some alternate reality he would have sworn – but he knew only two well how one's language could affect a situation. _

Lancer didn't just begin to panic – he'd been panicking for the past two minutes, at least. What was happening? How could he stop all the words pouring onto the screen when they had no visible cause? It was _ruining _his story! He didn't want a ghost in there! What if he was screwing it up? What would happen if it was broken, and the ghost who owned the great machine came back for it?

Panicking never got anyone anywhere. The poor schoolteacher had to remind himself of this, however, as he desperately hammered the off button, the sleep button... but there were so many buttons on this damn thing! Surely one had to tell it to _stop_!

But it was too late. The keyboard had been hijacked...


	3. The Slow Epiphany

**The Obligatory Author's Note:**  
I wanted to have this up sooner, actually (despite my old track record) but some very pressing assignments got in the way. Not to worry! I have more time next week so we'll be looking at faster updates.

If anyone's interested, that assignment was to make a board game. Normally group assignments are absolute hell, but I dunno, this was kind of fun. My head of class now has a highly non-portable 1 metre by 1 metre slab of cardboard in her office. xD She can have fun with that.

* * *

**The Story that Reared Up and Attacked**  
A fanfic by Pseudinymous

**~ Chapter 2 ~**

* * *

"Well, I, uh... nice to see you again, Mary!" said the 'Writer, leaning away from the pointed ruby tip, a blade that was getting worryingly close to his throat. "You know, I've never seen you look nicer!"

"Such lies..." she spat. "It's always the eyes that give you away – you don't know how to block your own expressions. You hate me, don't you?"

"Of course not!" he protested, but a sharp nudge in the throat had him backtracking. "You're a woman of stunning elegance, Ms. Sue, I don't see any way in which _anyone _could hate you!"

It didn't matter that the Ghostwriter's voice had become awfully high; if there was one thing that a Mary Sue craved, it was attention, and this one was sucking it up as if it were the last drop of water on the planet. "Really?" she asked, removing the sword, eyes aglow. "You really think so?"

"Oh _yes_. Definitely."

Everything about her glittered, especially her eyes. If he could just keep flattering her, maybe he'd stand a chance... it didn't help that he wanted to throw out some sort of horrible insult, but that was something that could be suppressed...

"Hold it - ... in your voice. There's sarcasm in your voice!"

... Or maybe not.

He saw it coming before it happened. Two tonnes of marvellous ruby sword came down faster and harder than your regular ton of especially sharpened bricks, an attack that would probably have sliced the panicked ghost in half – had it connected. The Ghostwriter had bent double and somehow landed on the ground, not quite used to seeing things upside down but nonetheless glad to note that he wasn't in two different pieces.

"It's not within my best interests to have something severed!" he croaked, readjusting himself and his glasses. The Sue gave him one of those sardonic looks they were always so fond of.

"Oh, but it's definitely within _my_ best interests to have you eliminated."

It was far too calm. Once again the Ghostwriter saw the sword coming before it did, but not with enough time to scramble out of the way – instead he had to rely on other instincts, ones that he wasn't so sure would work with a weapon that had come from the likes of his keyboard.

The Sue leapt from the unicorn, her dress fluttering elegantly in the wind, and drove the sword straight into whatever happened to be in its way.

Time went very slowly. During this time, the Ghostwriter was able to note quite a lot of things, but _particularly _that the sight of a sword intangibly passing straight through your stomach and into (and by 'into', he meant thirty centimetres deep) the concrete below was a deeply disturbing one, at best.

On the other hand, he also saw an opportunity in the Sue's sudden bewilderment and made a snatch for the handle of the sword, ripping it from her surprisingly fragile grip and removing himself from the blade.

After a quick battle to withdraw it from the ground, he glared at her, laser green eyes furiously gleaming with rows of razor sharp teeth barred. The 'Writer held the sword in a position ready to swing, if need be... but first, he had some bartering to do.

"Who's using the keyboard? _Where are they?_" he demanded. "I might not know anything about swords, but a fool with a sharp object is a force to be reckoned with!"

"I don't answer so easily, I hope you realise?" Mary replied slyly, holding out an arm to the side. A sword, this time purely made of diamond and modelled after Excalibur itself, materialised in her hand. The Ghostwriter blinked.

"Weren't you expensive enough already?"

"There is not such a thing as too expensive!"

The sugary smile that had previously been plastered all over the Sue's sickening face had all but disappeared. Now, it had morphed into something indescribably awful, a twisted mess of violent sadism.

"You know what? You might have not have any skill at wielding blades, but trust me, I _do_!"

The unicorn (which now, somehow, seemed rather insignificant to the picture) had backed away nervously, watching its owner and the stranger exchanging _looks_.

The Sue's diamond sword came hurtling through the air and towards the Ghostwriter's face, barely warded off by its ruby counterpart. His arm already felt like it was becoming limp from the previous attack, but the next one was already on its way back and he certainly didn't have any time to shield again. Instead, he instinctively leaned backwards.

Most of the Ghostwriter survived this next attack from the diamond sword, except one extremely important part – his glasses had been knocked clean from his face, across part of the nature strip and onto someone's front lawn.

"How dare you" he fumed, suddenly finding the previously undiscovered strength to grip the sword even tighter, "How _dare _you do that to my glasses!"

Now it was _his _turn to make an attack. The Sue reacted by diving to the side and barely managed to avoid a full blow to the face. Her hair took it instead. It landed in a neat blonde pile beneath her.

"You cut off my hair!" Mary shrieked, clasping the back of her head with her hand. The sword dropped to the ground with a sharp _clang!_ And she, crestfallen about her new hairstyle, fell to her knees and began to tear up. The 'Writer, of course, would have none of this and glared at her accusingly, uncaring that she was probably about to cry.

"_You_ cut off my glasses!"

"But you're _awful_! Th-that's no reason to t-take my hair off..."

The beginning sniffles became apparent, so pure and convincing that the ghost had to remind himself that it was all a sympathy act – probably used to draw him in close, from which she could attack before he'd even thought about what was going on. So he took charge, remembering the mistakes of the past; he put his foot down firmly on the sword of diamond, which was lying on the footpath, and pushed it away to where it lay safely out of reach.

Now, it was his turn.

The Sue was too devastated to do anything but gulp when she found her own ruby sword pointed directly at her face.

"You _do not_ mess with me, Sue!" the Ghostwriter warned. "Tell me the location of the keyboard!"

Mary bit down on her lip. "A teacher has it down the road. It's the house with the wire fence..."

The Ghostwriter couldn't bring himself to even respond. Instead, he picked up his thankfully unbroken glasses, both of the swords, and began to trudge his way to the house of the culprit.

* * *

Lancer _stared _at the screen, his eyes wide and expression horrified; that one section had been typed so fast that it was almost as if the keyboard was trying to keep up with events _in real time_. It was difficult enough trying to read it all as it came! But, his suspicions about the device... it was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.

It was then that he finally realised that this was a _ghost artefact_. Reality didn't much like being reality around ghost artefacts; suddenly, the ridiculous was merely preposterous...

The balding teacher left his post and dashed into the lounge, looking out the window and hoping to see _anything _that would disqualify his fears... but it was no longer snowing. That certainly wasn't a comforting thought.

Nor was the somewhat frazzled-looking ghost - carrying _both _of the swords chronicled about on the keyboard – approaching Lancer's house. What blood was left in his face from beforehand drained.

* * *

Now sufficiently shaken up from his bout with what could have been the most powerful Sue to date, the Ghostwriter headed his sufficiently unmerry way to the culprit's house. As he did, he realised something; that was the first Sue ever to have gone in for the kill, even if she was so easy to upset. It was a worrying thought.

Dragging the two swords behind him, he spotted the trademark wire fence and approached the offending house. The Sue had at least sounded truthful on this one, but even if she'd told a lie, it was all he had to go on...

... Although, he did notice that the keyboard's presence seemed stronger, here. How had he missed that? He never really was that good at this specialised sort of navigation, but _really_?

A quick look through the lounge room window of the house revealed an older man with not a single hair left on his head. Their eyes met for a split-second, before he turned a shade whiter than your average ghost and ducked out of the window. _Bingo_, thought the 'Writer. He'd found the one responsible for this... this _mess _of a story, and was definitely the greatest sign of the keyboard. Then, he could finally pick up the pieces and fix _most _of the damage done.

The problem, however, still lay with the Mary Sue, which he'd probably have to deal with physically. Needless to say, he wasn't looking forward to that.

Finding himself at the teacher's door, the Ghostwriter rapped it several times and listened for a sound. If anything, a scared sort of squeak may have occurred on the other side, even if he couldn't be sure. He rapped the door several more times, to no avail.

"Look!" he reasoned. "I think you have my keyboard! Now you can let me in politely, or I'll just walk straight through the door; which do you want it to be?"

Gingerly, the door opened up. The teacher behind it stared at the ghost before him, and then down to both of those swords. And then, in a panic, he slammed it shut just as the ghost made a move to go inside, leaving half of him standing inside and the other still out. He gave Lancer an unimpressed expression, before phasing the rest of himself inside.

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Said the disgruntled Ghostwriter, placing both of the swords gently against the wall next to the door frame. "I'm not going to have you sliced up or anything, you know. I have half a mind to, but I'm not."

Lancer said nothing, with the exception of a pathetic whimper.

"Okay, well, if you're not going to say anything, I suppose we should start somewhere around..." the 'Writer mock-thought for a moment, before coming to "Do you have any _idea _what you've done?"

Lancer audibly gulped and avoided eye contact as though the floor was the only thing that didn't possess eyes. This ghost mightn't have been entirely threatening him (even if it felt like it), but neither did he seem like one of the more _docile _members of his species, either. Overly-animated body movements and rows of sharp, pointed teeth made the ghost, at least to the teacher, quite a bit more sinister than many that he'd seen beforehand.

"... Done what...?" he eventually managed.

"For God's sake, man! You _warped _reality with my keyboard! Don't you _dare _say you don't know anything about it!" the Ghostwriter raved, voice steadily getting louder and eyes quickly getting brighter. "You even changed the _season of the year_! You can't honestly tell me that you had no idea what you were doing! Where'd your common sense take a holiday to? Antarctica? _Pluto_?"

"I thought it was harmless!" Lancer squeaked, beginning to sweat. Now all he could focus on those teeth... oh, why were those teeth so frightening? Why did he have to analyse how inhumanly _sharp_ they were?

"It's not _harmless_! I'll tell you what it is – it's a Quantum Keyboard! There's only _one_, and it can be used to systematically _alter reality_! You, my good man, just sent a murderous, homicidal _Sue _on the loose. Not only that, but you actually went so far that you called her _Mary_!"

Lancer was well-and-truly lost. He was lost in what he'd gotten himself into, lost with what a Sue was, and _completely _lost in thoughts of running as fast as he could to his house's nearest escape route. Instead, however, he stood rooted to the spot. This was for two reasons – the first was out of pure fear, and the other was the far more logical fact that ghosts had reaction speeds several times faster than humans, making the decision a very unwise one, indeed.

So he stood there, scared and deeply confused.

The Ghostwriter studied the man's expression for a few moments, even going as far as to lower his glasses just to make sure Lancer looked exactly the same without them.

"... You don't even know what a Mary Sue is, do you...?"

"..."

The poor, slightly overwhelmed ghost allowed his head to tilt back, nearly hitting the wall. "A Mary Sue is any fictional character in a story that is severely stereotyped, dramatic, unbelievable and usually has talents that top the other members of the case by several _times_. But that's just in a normal fictional story..."

Lancer fidgeted. "... And in mine?"

The 'Writer looked out the window, his expression worried. "When you type a Sue into the Quantum Keyboard, you have a multitude of problems. First and foremost, the Sues that result from foolishness are usually even _more _outrageous than originally intended, especially when they... start taking the story on a bit of a ride. I've witnessed Sues before – even written a few myself, for more experimental purposes – but none of them have ever been as bad as this. You can determine how dangerous it is by how many clichés and Sue elements have initially been fed into it."

The teacher wasn't sure if he could chance saying something, but decided finally that perhaps it might make dampen his 'guest's' anger a little if he tried to defend himself. "L-look," he tried, as sincerely as possible (which was really quite sincere, as one can't be more sincere as when they're being sincere), "I really didn't know I was doing any of this... if I could take it all back, I really would. B-but, erm... exactly how many of these things were in Mary...?"

With a look of distaste similar to that of someone who'd just been forced to eat something awful, the ghost held up his fingers to count.

"One; the dress. Two; the rubies. Three; the emerald sword. Four; the long blonde hair. Five; the _diamond _sword." At this point, he paused, lifting up a second hand and raising an eyebrow in unison. "Six; you called her _Mary_, of all things. Seven; the unicorn. Eight; the sweetness. Nine; her skill with a sword. Ten; her beautiful eyes..." he paused again, grinning in a somewhat morbid fashion. "It seems I've ran out of fingers."

"I take it that that's-"

"Bad? Yes, of course it's bad."

Lancer whimpered, not for the first time that day – nor for the second, or the third. "... How dangerous?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest," said the Ghostwriter, weighing things up, "She's only had a shot at completely ceasing my existence altogether. On a scale of one to ten... I'd say this one is maybe about an _eleven_."

"..._Oh_..."


	4. Not Even a Person

**The Obligatory Author's Note:**  
Hello! I have returned from my mystical adventure into university exam time, mostly unscathed! And so... more fanfic. Sorry about the absence. Forgive me? :)

* * *

**The Story that Reared Up and Attacked  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

**~ Chapter 3 ~**

* * *

The teacher swallowed. "...What have I done...?" he asked faintly, staggering backwards until he hit and collapsed into his squashy armchair. "Please don't kill me!"

The Ghostwriter looked at Lancer oddly. "Why would I kill you? You might be part of the problem, yes, but maybe that automatically makes you part of the solution. Even if it is cliché." There was a pause. The ghost suddenly gained a horrified look. "Actually, that's probably not the best of ideas, considering it's a _Sue_ we're dealing with..."

Lancer had no idea what the Ghostwriter's temperament was truly like; indeed, five minutes was certainly not enough to understand why and how a person ticked. So, for this reason, he did not interrupt the 'Writer's indecipherable train of thought, which may or may not have split three ways and been pulled back together somewhere in the middle. If these were actual physical trains, they all would have crashed at an intersecting piece of rail. Eventually, the ghost came to a halt, spare parts from discarded trains still scattered all over the answer.

"So we'll absolutely have to find the Sue then..." muttered the ghost. "Do you follow?"

To Lancer's credit, he'd been half-listening as best he could. He was a smart man, but the Ghostwriter's trains of thought were so out-of-order and in some cases totally irrational – following it was like running after a freight train that was going to crash into another freight train. So Lancer reached for his helpful reference book to the right, _How to be Hip for the Unhip_.

"Err... who said what now?"

The 'Writer's eye was twitching. Lancer put the book down _immediately_, and waited patiently (and nervously) for the coming explanation.

"First, we use the keyboard to fix up what we can; things such as the season of the year should be fine. We can also use it to give ourselves a few... particularly fair advantages, especially since Sue's have a bit of a knack at warping reality on their own. Not nearly as much as my keyboard, mind you, but it's unlikely we'll be able to do anything about her without it."

"Okay..." Lancer replied, a little uncertainly – although at least now with comprehension. "And... well, what are we going to do when we find Mary?"

The Ghostwriter made a strange, sour expression – somehow a mix between unpleasant and annoyed. Lancer didn't like the look of this expression in the slightest.

"So... you want to kill her, then..."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" asked the ghost. "If she's allowed to live, she'll cause any number of horrible things, regardless of how she's trapped. Besides, it's not like she has any sort of soul. She's not even a _person_!"

"You're not a person." Mumbled Lancer.

"_What _was that?"

"Nothing!"

The 'Writer didn't stop glaring at Lancer for some time afterwards, and the teacher quickly got the point that he was even less likeable than usual. But it wasn't his fault, after all... he was in a very tight situation, here. Not to mention frightening. He currently felt so far out of his depth that the Atlantic Ocean seemed inadequate as a metaphor.

Lancer eventually decided that shutting up and listening would be his best bet, from now. Maybe the Ghostwriter was right. Maybe they _did _have to kill Mary. But Lancer didn't like the sound of that – regardless of whether she was a 'person' or not, it seemed fundamentally wrong, even if it was a matter of life and death.

On the other hand, Lancer's deer-in-the-headlights mentality was telling him to follow the only relevant advice that existed.

"Right. First thing's first." The Ghostwriter sighed, finally. "We need to fix what we can and see what she's doing."

* * *

"Blasted Sue!" screeched the Ghostwriter, within moments of entering the inner circle of the keyboard. "That infernal _witch_ of a girl!"

Lancer had to stop himself from backing away. "... What's happening?"

"The Sue – that may I remind you, _you _created – hasn't exactly gone unnoticed. Not to mention the fact that it's deciding to pay us a visit! Dear Lord..."

"You _are _joking, right? Just trying to shake me up as punishment for doing this...?"

"Of course I'm not joking!" The 'Writer yelled, clasping Lancer's arm and yanking him through the side of the keyboard. The teacher had a very fundamental problem with this, which would have been something to do with passing through an apparently solid object. Had he not already dealt with enough surprises today he might have fainted. Meanwhile, a livid Ghostwriter was pointing wildly at the screen.

"Look!" he spat. "Look at this!"

Lancer leaned in and squinted.

_Mary hadn't had a very good day. After all, she'd just gotten to this quaint little place, and then – all of a sudden – BOOM! She was attacked like some kind of criminal! Hair cut off with a sword as she was _innocently_ trying to defend herself!_

_However, she was still rather satisfied. After all, she was a very smart person, and very smart people tended to know which side their bread was buttered on. Time would heal the wounds. And if everything went according to plan, (which, of course, it would) then it'd do a whole lot more than just that, too._

_First, she'd need a following. A group of people who loved her so much that they'd be undyingly devoted to her. Mary didn't know how hard it would be to get a group of people like that, but she'd try to recruit them anyway. Surely, people would bite for such a noble cause?_

_So she waited a few minutes for the sun to come up properly and her beautiful hair to grow back. Now, all the little children had eaten their breakfast and had come out to play._

"_Of course!" she said to herself. "The children's minds are young and unquestioning; they shall listen to me!"_

_So Mary gathered up some of the kids in the area. The girls were especially accepting (because she did, after all, look like a princess) and the mothers and fathers allowed them to go with her because she asked them ever-so-nicely. _It's good to be so manipulative_, she thought, grinning when she knew no one was looking._

_Soon, she had a crowd of twenty-five children from up and down the road and a few of the other surrounding streets. Just like the size of a class of students. So then she leaped from her beautiful unicorn, landing perfectly in front of them._

"_Now kids, do you all know why I've asked you to come with me?" She asked, coating her voice with sugar and batting her eyelids._

_They all grinned and beamed at her, one little boy in particular shouting out "Because you're going to buy us ice-cream and pizza!"_

"_See, did you hear that? Ice-cream and pizza for all of you! But, you just have to help me do one little thing, first. After you've done it, you can have as much pizza and ice-cream as money can buy!"_

"_Oooh, what do you want us to do?" a little girl piped up. "Do you want us to play hide and seek or chasey with you? Or do some chores?"_

"_Not quite, sweetheart. But you're very close!" Mary beamed. "See, there's these two men hiding in a house not too far from here. One is actually a teacher – he doesn't have any hair and works up at Casper – maybe some of your siblings know him? The other one is a thin guy with a beard and glasses. He also _glows_. They were being cheeky people, and decided to steal my special keyboard away from me. I need you to help me get it back from them, and find them in the house. When you see them, All of you give them a great big hug so that they can't move, and I'll grab my keyboard. Then, ice-cream and pizza!"_

"_This sounds really fun!" one boy with rosy cheeks commented, cheerfully._

"_Yeah, it'll be great! And then we get junk food!" another added._

_They all agreed, and decided that going with Mary was a great idea. So she began to lead them to the house of William Lancer, where they knew they'd have a great time doing a noble deed. Many wondered about the man that supposedly glowed, but rather than questioning, they just thought it was cool and very like Danny Phantom._

"... Surely the children aren't _that _stupid! And their parents, letting them go off like that with a stranger!"

"It's the Sue's influence; it can't be helped." The Ghostwriter sighed. "We know what she is, so we'll be alright. But the children, those parents... ugh, I can't_ believe _this. She's going to cover us in children so that if we try to attack her, we'll risk hurting one of them."

"Isn't there a way to separate the kids from her?"

The 'Writer fiddled with his keyboard for a moment.

**WARNING:  
Are you sure you want to delete your current story? All elements (except characters, etc) will be erased.**

"This is a way. It will lessen our ability to fight back and spy on her, but she'll also lose some of her power without any narrative to feed off..."

"Then we have to do it, don't we?"

"We do."

The Ghostwriter leaned over in front of Lancer and hit the Enter key. It caused an odd mechanical sound, but the story was gone. The pair sighed, not just in relief, but anxiety. A hurricane was about to pass through.

"... At least now she'll have lost control over those kids... hopefully."

"Hopefully?"

"Well... you have to consider the variable that the kids might, in all actuality, _like _her. The smart ones might pull out. Not sure about those wanting their junk food reward, however."

"Oh... of course." Lancer muttered. He began to drum his fingers on the keyboard, nervously. For the first time since the ordeal began, he had a very _good _idea of what was going to happen next – a confrontation. This sort of thing made him sick to his knees. But... he had to do what had to be done, didn't he?

"Look... you take care of the keyboard. You_ know _what you're doing. And... me, I'll go into the lounge and keep an eye out for her. If I see anything suspicious, I'll yell back to you."

The 'Writer lowered an eyebrow in thought. "I guess there _is _a little method to your madness, then. Come back at the first sign of trouble, and for _God's _sake, don't get yourself involved with it; just come straight back down here, and keep out of sight."

Lancer didn't have his mind on the Ghostwriter's words, however. As he closed the garage door behind himself, ever the diplomat, he was thinking about_ reasoning _with the Sue. There shouldn't be any need for killing if he was able to persuade her away from those... somewhat violent tendencies. That would be a terrific result! That, and he wouldn't be trapped in a small room with a ghost that still rather frightened him. Also a plus. In his mind, Lancer had it all worked out. Surely the Sue wouldn't dare hurt its own creator, and not with kids around, either!

...

Surely.

So Lancer looked out the window for a good long while. In fact, so long that he wondered where Mary was and what she was doing... or conspiring. The Ghostwriter's attempt at taking her power away couldn't have done any good to her temperament, but Lancer was still convinced he could change her mind. He _had _built her with niceness, after all.

After about half an hour of constant waiting, the 'Writer called up to Lancer to make sure he was okay. He called again at the one-hour mark, as well as the one-and-a-half hour mark.

At around two hours of stagnation, Lancer began to wonder if the Sue had just given up and gone away, even if he knew better than that. But his eyes were becoming tired from constantly staring at the same spot, and his attention was dropping. He was almost asleep, but through the window, in the very corner of his eye...

"_A Time to Kill_! She's here!"

Her, and six hungry children tailing behind.

Looking at her face shot shivers down Lancer's spine. Should he really try and reason with what even a ghost called an abomination? What if she tried to _kill _him? Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so sure of himself. The Sue had already seen his face through the window. The Ghostwriter was yelling at him to get into the garage. The diamond and ruby swords were still sitting up against the wall. And the doorknob was turning...

This time, it _was _too much. Lancer passed out.


End file.
